A choice
by Angel10242
Summary: Sherlock is stuck on a case and can't find a way out. He does something that shocks John, but not as much as John's proposed solution surprises Sherlock. A twisted kind of pre johnlock romance. SEQUEL NOW UP (a decision made) warning: references to self-harm, bdsm, m/m and lots of other fun things. Don't read if these things will offend you.
1. Chapter 1

The case had been going on for 10 days now. It was too long. The clues were there but Sherlock couldn't read them. He lay prone on the sofa, his mind going over and over the details, stepping through the crime scenes, in minutia. But he couldn't _see_. With a moan, he screwed his eyes shut, brought his knees up to his chest and rolled to face the back of the sofa, trapped in his mind.

John frowned as he looked at Sherlock from his chair. The awkward position he had contorted himself into must be painful. The sofa wasn't big enough for his long bones to fit easily, and John was worried about the man. He had never seen him so stumped before on a case, and they both knew that time was running out to solve this one. Lives were in danger, John thought, and huffed. Lives were always in danger when Sherlock Holmes was involved in a case... usually John's.

With a sigh, he got up. "I'll make us a cuppa, shall I?" He said to Sherlock's back. Knowing the detective was unlikely to have heard him, and was even more unlikely to respond, he headed straight for the kitchen. The familiar tasks involved in making the tea soothed him. For once there were no random body parts stored in the fridge, so even getting the milk out wasn't the 'adventure' it was usually. He idly looked round to see what food there was for dinner. Nothing, as usual, it being Sherlock's turn to shop. John smiled to himself in frustration at his brilliant, but clueless flatmate. He was the cleverest man John had ever met, and yet Sherlock was incapable of the simplest of tasks such as remembering to buy milk on his way home. Takeaway again tonight then.

Some hours later the tea was untouched and John had yet to see a sign of movement from Sherlock. Placing yet another steaming mug on the table, John gently touched Sherlock's shoulder. "tea's on the table Sherlock" he said quietly, not wanting to intrude on the detective's thought process "I'm off to bed, see you in the morning". Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, and John took his cup upstairs with him, with the intention of spending some time reviewing his latest blog entry before sleep. He knew he couldn't help Sherlock when he withdrew into himself like this. The best thing he could do was sleep and keep himself well and ready to do whatever Sherlock wanted him to do tomorrow. "Probably something dangerous, possibly illegal, definitely exciting" he said to himself with a wry smile. He might protest that Sherlock had him racing around following in his wake just so he had someone to show off to, but John loved it really, and would always be grateful to Sherlock for bringing so much colour back into his life. Even if that colour was frequently blood-red.

oOo oOo oOo

It was 4am when John woke. He could hear faint sounds of movement from downstairs which he assumed meant Sherlock had finally found a new insight into the case. With a sigh and a look of longing at the warm cosy bed he was giving up, he got up, pulling a dressing gown on as he walked out of his room. There was no point delaying it - he had tried that when he'd first moved into 221b Baker Street and Sherlock had tended to burst through his bedroom door and talk at him while pacing round the room. Given the choice John preferred to be in the living room for those lectures. He felt decidedly uneasy with the detective in his bedroom, and his jaw tightened as he remembered the last time and how Sherlock had woken him abruptly from a very interesting dream, and how the great detective had been very lucky John had scrambled enough sleep-dulled wits together to hide the evidence of his arousal before Sherlock had noticed it.

With his eyes half shut and his mind still asleep he shuffled into the bathroom. Sherlock tended towards extended monologues when he got going after days of silence, it was best to pee first. He opened the door, to be met with a gasp. His eyes widened in shock at what he saw. He had unintentionally caught Sherlock in the act of doing something very, very bad.

oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock jumped to his feet, a guilty expression flashing across his face before he managed to control his emotions. "What do you think you are doing bursting in here?" he asked haughtily.

"Don't even think about trying that one on me" snapped John, now fully awake. "And you'd better come up with an explanation damn quickly for why you are standing here with a knife in your hand, and blood dripping down your arms. Preferably one that doesn't make me want to throttle you for being so goddamn stupid" The end of the sentence came out in almost a snarl as John fought to control himself while looking at the scene in front of him. He had walked into the bathroom to find Sherlock sitting on the floor with his shirt off, the knife against his arm, in the process of cutting himself.

"I..." Sherlock faltered, and looked down, suddenly lost. John relaxed slightly, unclenching his fists, and reached out, took the knife from his flatmate and dropped it into the pocket of his dressing gown. Taking Sherlock's hands, he pulled the taller man to him so he could inspect the damage done. Without conscious effort he had slipped into Doctor mode - clinical and assessing. Not the first time, he noted, twisting Sherlock's arm to see the silvery scars underneath the new cuts. Absently he wondered how often, and how he had managed to miss this happening under his nose. He avoided looking at Sherlock's face, not wanting to know what he might see there. Guilt maybe, perhaps defiance. Shame? John wanted to focus on the wounds first.

He walked Sherlock into the living room, a hand still around the younger man's wrist. With a gentle push he seated him on one of the dining chairs. With a quick glance at Sherlock's face, to show him the half-smile on his lips, he allowed himself to meet his friend's eyes for a second before sternly saying "stay". He knew he couldn't moderate his tone enough to keep it neutral right now and remove the anger he was feeling, but Sherlock could read him if he gave him eye contact, and would know the anger came from concern.

Walking away he quickly gathered the first aid box and some other supplies. He returned to Sherlock, who hadn't moved. With his daytime clinic Doctor's un-judgmental facial expression in place, John sat on a chair opposite and started work. The familiar tasks of cleaning the cuts and bandaging allowed him to settle his mind. He was aware of Sherlock's eyes watching his fingers with fascination as they disinfected and inspected. Now John could see the damage himself he calmed down. There had been a lot of blood but the cuts were relatively shallow. No serious harm done.

"Why?" he asked quietly, all the while focussing on his hands tending to Sherlock's arm.

"I, uh," Sherlock stalled. "You're the doctor, you tell me".

John looked up at Sherlock, saw the confused look on his face - the mix of emotions flitting across it, and took pity on him. "You hurt yourself." He said simply, "because you can't let go. Because you are trying to solve an impossible case and you haven't eaten or slept in days. You are at the end of your tolerance and something had to give, and this was the way out. You knew the endorphin rush would feel good, and it was the work of seconds to achieve a 'hit'. Close?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "It was this or calling my dealer" he admitted.

John couldn't help a slight hiss of disapproval at that. He hated the idea of the brilliant Sherlock slicing into his own flesh, but he despised the thought of seeing him high as a kite, lost to everyone.

"You can't keep doing this, you know?" he said in a gentle voice, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock could see the worry and concern on his friend's face, and the touch of suppressed anger underpinning it all. He shuddered slightly. John was his closest friend - his only friend, and he wouldn't like it if Sherlock told him what he saw in the doctor some days - the darkness. Sherlock knew that John thought he had it tightly under wraps, but at times like this, when he was caught unprepared, it came closer to the surface. Sherlock was fascinated by it, by the paradox of the mild-mannered man who shared his life, and this creature of snarling rage and ferocity he kept chained up inside of him. Idly Sherlock wondered how one would go about releasing that, and then soberingly decided he would really rather not have it directed at him. He wasn't sure he would survive it.

Slightly dazed, Sherlock realised John was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. "Not tonight, no" he hazarded.

John nodded, satisfied with that for the time being. "Will you try and sleep for me please?" he asked. "I know every minute is important on this case, but you need to take care of yourself." He gently helped Sherlock to rise from the chair, and led him back to the sofa to lie down. Covering him with a blanket, he waited until the detective shut his eyes, then on impulse reached down and kissed the top of his head. Sherlock's eyes flew open in surprise, and he watched as John smiled down at him. "we'll talk when this case is over," he promised. "Just keep yourself alive and healthy for me until then please". The detective nodded slowly, once, then closed his eyes again as his thoughts went back to the case, tuning out the sounds of John slowly making his way back up the stairs to his bed.

oOo oOo oOo

Two days later, and the case was closed. Sherlock's mind had finally found what it was searching for in the clues, and had made the link which led the police back to the kidnapper. In celebration John had dragged his friend out to Angelo's for dinner, and had even managed to get him to order some food and take a couple of mouthfuls. The wine John was drinking had loosened his tongue, and the two were having a good time, laughing about the ridiculous chase they had ended up in on the previous day, which had resulted in them hiding in a rubbish bin full of rotting cabbages for what had felt like hours.

"I haven't forgotten" said John, suddenly becoming serious. "About the other night, in the bathroom. You and I need to work out a way of stopping that happening again, because I'll be damned if I want to patch you up like that again."

"What do you suggest?" asked Sherlock, intrigued despite himself. He knew John wouldn't insult his intelligence by offering a textbook solution.

"I don't know yet" John admitted, "but I'm working on some ideas." And the conversation moved on to happier things as he prompted Sherlock into eagerly recounting the number of basic mistakes Anderson had made at the last crime scene.

They were quiet on the walk home, each of them lost in their own thoughts. When they reached the front door John stepped up to unlock it, then turned suddenly to look at Sherlock. His eyes were full of concern, but Sherlock noted a gleam of something else in them too. Was it excitement? Anticipation? Lust even? In the orange glow of the street light, Sherlock couldn't be sure, and before he knew it that look had gone, his eyes had dropped, and John was back to being John.

Nothing more was said that night, but the next morning John passed Sherlock a cup of tea and told him in far too casual a voice, which made Sherlock's senses prick with interest, "next time you feel like that, promise me you'll come to me first, okay? I want to help, and I have an idea for an experiment we can try. And if I can't make it better for you, you can do whatever you need to do - cutting, drugs, whatever - and I won't stand in your way."

Sherlock looked at him with interest, noting that John was deliberately avoiding eye contact. Something to hide then. Something he didn't want Sherlock to know just yet. How intriguing!

"I promise" Sherlock agreed readily. He thought the trade off of being subjected to John's proposed experiment was well worth it if he got to find out one of the good doctor's secrets. And John had agreed to allow him his preferred release otherwise. He really didn't have anything to lose.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Three months later, and neither of them had mentioned the 'bathroom incident', or the subsequent conversation. But things were building up again and John knew it was only a matter of time before he had to take Sherlock in hand and save him from himself. He could see the signs now he knew what to look for - the case was going badly and Sherlock wasn't dealing with it very well, even by his own standards. The detective had been even more acerbic than usual at the police station earlier, hitting out at everyone indiscriminately and cruelly with his razor sharp comments until Lestrade had practically thrown them out of the door. He'd reduced Molly to tears at the lab, and even John's seemingly never-ending patience with Sherlock was stretched to breaking point. They had shared a heated argument in the taxi home and Sherlock had flounced off to the sofa and thrown himself on it with his arm across his face, muttering something about incompetence, mind palaces, and "needing time to _think_ if that wasn't too much trouble". John, following him into the room, had decided that he didn't have the energy to deal with Sherlock in full drama-queen mode after such a long day, and took himself off to the pub.

It was quiet when John got home a couple of hours later. He opened the door to their flat and turned on the light, to find Sherlock sitting in the kitchen, hands in his lap, staring down at the table. In front of him was the knife John had found him using in the bathroom those months before. Slowly, John took his coat off and hung it up, then approached the table and pulled out a chair to face Sherlock. He couldn't help noticing it was the same position they had been in when he had cared for Sherlock's wounds last time, and immediately dismissed the thought that this might be coincidence. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing when he chose to sit there.

For a while there was silence as John waited.

"I want to use it" Sherlock admitted in a quiet voice.

"But you haven't?" questioned John, calmly. Sherlock shook his head, "not yet."

"Good" said John. "Come with me." He stood, and gestured for Sherlock to follow him through the living room, up the stairs, and into John's bedroom. John stopped him in the doorway, then walked into the room and sat down on a chair across from the door.

"Before you come in, you need to understand what the rules are. If you aren't willing to abide by them, you must tell me now. If you step into my room, then I will hold you to them." John told him, a quiet level of command audible in his voice. Sherlock gazed at him, fascinated. He'd never heard John talk in this way.

"Firstly, when you are in my room you will do everything I say. You don't get a choice, you don't get to negotiate, and you don't get to leave until I say you can.

"Secondly, you will be polite to me. You can be as rude as you always are to me outside of this room, but during our time in here you speak only when you are asked a direct question, and you will show me a proper level of respect when I do allow you to speak. You will always be honest with your answers, and if you don't know the answer to something I ask, you will say so.

"Thirdly, you will tell me as and when you think need this, but it will be my decision as to what you get. You may ask me for it at any time, but I will decide whether you deserve it.

"Now usually there would be safe words and agreed limits and other nonsense, but you don't need any of that right now. I will decide when it is too much. I'll use my skills as a doctor and a consulting detective's assistant to _deduce_ it." And at that John smiled and Sherlock gave a small smile back. This was new, and scary, and he wasn't sure exactly what John was talking about, or even which part of John was doing the talking. But at that smile, he knew _his _John was there still, and that his John would take care of him.

"If I come in, what are you going to do to me?" asked Sherlock. Already his tone was more level and less frenetic than it had been for days. He could feel some of the stress of the case ebbing away just by focussing on this new development.

John continued in the same calm, commanding voice, "I will make you remove your clothes, tie your wrists to my bedpost, gag you, then beat you with my belt until you can't think any more." Sherlock gasped. "Is that acceptable Sherlock? Is that what you need?"

"I... yes... I think so..." He managed to say, around the whirling in his mind. John! John was offering to tie him up and beat him! How exciting!

John stood up and walked slowly back to the doorway. He looked up at Sherlock and spoke again, in a more normal John voice. "I know this is a lot and probably not what you were expecting, and I don't want you to over-think it. If you walk into here, you do it on your own volition. You can walk away now and I promise I'll never mention it again. And regardless of whether you stay or go, you know I wouldn't ever do anything to you I didn't think was necessary. I'll never hurt you for my own benefit. I'm not saying I won't enjoy it" again, Sherlock saw a wry smile dance across his face, "but this is in essence a selfless act."

Sherlock smiled back, until a thought crossed his mind and he flinched imperceptibly.

"What?" said John instantly, back in his commanding voice, "tell me what made you flinch"

"You aren't going to... um... you don't _want_ me, do you?" asked Sherlock in an awkward, embarrassed tone, looking down at the floor.

John chuckled softly, and used his hand to gently lift Sherlock's jaw until he was looking into his eyes and could see the truth of what John was saying. "No funny business, I promise. I just want to help you, not take advantage of you"

Sherlock sighed with relief. He knew he wanted what John was offering, but wasn't willing for any kind of sexual activity to take place. And he understood John's rules and the limitations of his ability to say no once they started this. He was glad he'd broached it, despite his discomfort.

"Ready?" Asked John quietly, as he made his way back to the chair and sat down again. Sherlock nodded, then stepped carefully into John's room.

oOo oOo oOo

John watched with barely suppressed excitement as Sherlock took two steps into his room. He had been thinking about this for months, and would finally be able to put it into practice. It had all started with an idle thought when they were walking home from Angelo's after the kidnapping case. He'd been thinking about how insufferable Sherlock had been during the case and that he needed someone to whip some sense into him some days. It had been a joke, but then his mind had flashed on an image of Sherlock, bent over the kitchen table, with John using Sherlock's riding crop to bring a rosy hue to the pale skin on the back of his thighs. He couldn't help but feel a burst of arousal at the image, and his mouth had practically watered at the thought.

By the morning he'd decided it was a ridiculous idea, but then when he was making the tea he'd found Sherlock's knife in the cutlery drawer. Rubbing his finger across the sharp blade, he'd flashed to an image of Sherlock in the bathroom as John had found him, blood dripping, his eyes half closed with bliss, as he reached to cut again. John had seen that look on an ex-girlfriend, and knew the detective needed the pain, the release in some way. And, he reasoned with himself, it would be much better if it was controlled and someone else was in charge. Sherlock wasn't exactly a paragon of putting his own safety first. Before John knew what he was doing, he'd handed Sherlock his tea and told him he would help next time, careful to keep his eyes averted so the oh-so-perceptive detective wouldn't see the swirling torrent of emotions under there.

And now it was happening. John closed his eyes briefly to settle his thoughts, then spoke to the man standing awkwardly just inside the doorway.

"Close the door then come stand in front of me, here by the bed." Sherlock did as he asked, and stood, with a questioning look on his face.

John frowned, Sherlock was thinking too much. That wasn't good. The point of this was to give him a break from all the thinking, all the control, not to give him a new puzzle to get hooked into. Time for some action.

"Let me see what you are wearing..." John looked up and down Sherlock, in his familiar suit trousers, tight shirt, and polished shoes. Sherlock shivered under the penetrating gaze, suddenly feeling very exposed. He resisted the urge to cross his arms across his chest. This was John, after all, and he had promised not to hurt him, well not _too_ much.

"Please remove your clothes and lie down on the bed. I'm going to want to stripe your arse, so I suggest you lie on your front."

Sherlock obediently removed his shirt and trousers, and shoes, and then stood, uncertainly. Did John mean for him to remove everything? He'd promised no sex... so why would he want Sherlock naked? If he had felt self-conscious standing in front of his friend a moment ago when fully dressed it was nothing to how he felt now.

"Yes" John said in response to the unspoken question, affecting a bored voice, "I did mean exactly what I said. Next time I won't tell you twice."

Steeling himself, Sherlock stepped to the side out of John's direct view, removed his final item of clothing, and lay down on the bed, arms by his sides. To his surprise, he felt exhilarated. It felt good to not have a choice or the opportunity to object, and he felt safe with John.

"Good boy" John said with a grin. Sherlock turned his head to look at John and couldn't help but smile back. John knew how hard that had been for Sherlock and although his language was condescending, his eyes were approving at Sherlock's ability to follow his command. If John was going to get him out of his mind and released from the trap he was currently in he needed to break his defenses down. Clothing was as good a way to start as any.

John sat back in his chair, watching the detective. Sherlock's body was rigid and his mind was racing as he lay there, wondering what he was supposed to do now, and how on earth he had ended up in this position in the first place. He glanced around the room, with his eyes, careful to keep his head still, taking in the little details. The pictures on the bedside table of John's sister and his mother, the neat row of books on the bookshelf. He could just about see into the doctor's closet and he smiled internally at the order inside - all those years of army inspections were a hard habit to break. He was aware that the room was warm, the bedding soft, and pillow beneath his head smelled of John, and it was a comfort. Slowly, Sherlock began to relax.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John was pleased to see Sherlock visibly let go of some of the tension in his body. His instincts had been correct, Sherlock needed someone, or something, else to take control - he couldn't just let go. With the speed and ferocity of a mind like his, it was no wonder he was addicted to anything that would give him respite - be that the drugs or the adrenaline from the detective work.

He stayed seated, silently plotting his next few moves. He wanted to give Sherlock what he needed but he was very aware this was new territory for them both and he didn't want to harm his friend, either mentally or physically. He thought that a simple approach would work best for this first time. Nothing too complicated that could risk them losing the mood half way through. Usually that didn't concern John - he enjoyed these games and could stay in the right frame of mind regardless, but he wanted to ensure Sherlock didn't get a chance to think about what he was doing.

He stood up and walked towards the bed. Crouching down near the pillow so he was level with Sherlock's face, he spoke quietly and calmly, consciously using his Captain voice, the one that seemed to soothe Sherlock without him even realising. "I'm going to cuff your hands to the bedposts in a moment. You won't be able to get out until I choose to release you."

The doctor produced a couple of pairs of police cuffs from his back pocket. Sherlock looked amused and without thinking started to ask "who did you..." before he was shocked into silence by a stinging slap across the back of his legs.

"Don't forget the rules" John reminded him mildly, then carefully took his friend's wrists, broadcasting his moves clearly so Sherlock wouldn't be surprised, and fastened the cuffs to them. He knelt on the bed, and guided the arm furthest from him up to the headboard and clipped it on, slightly wider than shoulder width, and then did the same with the detective's other arm. He took a step back then sat down again in the chair, watching as Sherlock cautiously flexed his wrists and elbows, testing his ability to move.

"I want to gag you," said John quietly, commanding Sherlock's full attention, "but I will give you a choice this time as to whether you want that or not. I think you will find it, um, _relaxing_ to be able to scream and moan as you like into it without upsetting Mrs Hudson. But if it scares you, we can leave it off."

Sherlock thought for a moment. His voice was his greatest weapon. To be without it willingly was a great sacrifice. But he found himself wanting to please John, and he couldn't help but think he might be grateful for the physical reminder he wasn't supposed to speak. He didn't like being punished for forgetting the rules. He looked up at John, "Yes"

"Yes what?"

"Yes I'd like to be gagged"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" John asked him sternly, waiting for Sherlock to remember the 'be polite' clause and interested as to how he would interpret it.

Sherlock realised his error quickly, but then didn't know how to fix it. What was John expecting? Did he want Sherlock to beg? Sherlock wasn't entirely naive about power games, and he knew some of the traditional forms. He tried again, cautiously, keeping his eyes lowered "Yes please Sir, I'd like to be gagged"

John looked at him, then roared with laughter, shocking Sherlock into actually moving his head to stare up at him. "I'm not your Master, or Sir or any trite like that." He said, smiling broadly, "what on earth have you been reading Sherlock? In fact, don't tell me, I don't want to know" Sherlock smiled too, embarrassed at having got it wrong, but glad John was amused and not angry. John got up again and crouched by the bed, looking into Sherlock's eyes with warmth and understanding. He touched his friend's arm lightly, reassuringly, and told him, "I'm your friend, Sherlock, and you can call me John, the same as you do the rest of the time. What I expect from you is that you say please and thank you where appropriate, and use my name. I neither want or need any other form of address."

Sherlock smiled briefly, nodding his understanding, and tried again. "Yes please, John, I'd like you to gag me." To his surprise he tensed, waiting for approval for this sentence. How unusual for him to have to think so carefully about what to say - his normal approach was to say whatever came into his mind, without a thought to who might be offended or affected by his words. This focus on getting the words correct was a revelation, and he stored it away to think about in depth later. John squeezed his arm lightly, validating Sherlock's choice of words, then reached across to fetch the ball gag from his bedside cabinet.

He brought it down so Sherlock could see it, twisting it in his fingers so the detective could analyse how it would attach, and how it moved. Careful this time to keep all traces of his Captain voice out of it, he gently asked Sherlock to open his mouth, making it as easy as possible for the man to back out and refuse. John wanted to do this, _knew_ it would be good for Sherlock, but he wanted him fully informed and willing, or it wouldn't work. After this stage there was really no going back - Sherlock would be committed and wouldn't be able to vocalise if he changed his mind. John watched the thoughts crossing Sherlock's face as he weighed up his options and the risk involved, able to read him almost as well as the detective could read the doctor. He saw hesitation, desire, caution, and finally need, before Sherlock's mouth opened. John nodded his approval and carefully attached the gag, being sure not to over tighten it.

"You should be able to breath easily, and make some noises, although I doubt I'll understand anything you say now." John told him, stroking his friend's hair back in a soothing way. "You'll probably find you drool a lot too, but that's to be expected." Sherlock tested the ball in his mouth, running his tongue over it, biting down gently with his teeth. It was uncomfortable, but not excessively so. He could bear it. He looked up at John and nodded.

To his own surprise, Sherlock was enjoying this. He had almost forgotten the reasons that brought him there, taken over as he was by all these new experiences, and this new John that stood before him. The suppressed darkness inside was closer to the surface now, Sherlock could see it. But there was an unexpected level of tenderness too, and Sherlock found himself leaning in to the hand in his hair, enjoying the touch.

John gave Sherlock's hair a final stroke, then leant down to whisper in his ear "be right back", and walked out the room. Sherlock was alone. His mind started to wander and he began to tense up again as thoughts of the case flooded his mind... those tricky crime scene photos, the evidence that just didn't add up, and almost involuntarily, he let out a moan. He should be working on the case right now, not cuffed to his friend's bed. To his side, John tutted. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John seated again, a glass of water in his hand. He must have come back into the room while Sherlock was deep in thought, without the detective noticing.

"We can't have this" he said disapprovingly. "Perhaps we need to add another rule? That I expect your attention in this room to be on me and me alone. Or perhaps you just need a distraction to remind you why you are here?" And John stood up, put the glass on the side and slowly unbuckled his belt.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sherlock watched in fascination as John undid his belt and slid it from his trousers. He was surprised to feel a twinge of arousal at the thought of John undressing in front of him, even though he knew the belt was all John was going to remove.

John moved over to the bed and sat on the edge, careful not to touch Sherlock. He allowed the end of the belt to trail over Sherlock's back and across his buttocks, resting in the soft spot at the back of his left knee briefly, before slowly making it's journey back up the right side of his body. As it dragged over the skin, John started talking in a low and dangerous voice. The Captain was there, for sure, but also something new, something menacing that Sherlock hadn't heard before. He wanted to focus on the words, but the constant motion of the belt and the anticipation of when it would strike made it difficult.

"You have such pretty skin, Sherlock. So pale and pristine. I'm going to enjoy seeing how red it gets with my belt. I haven't decided yet how I want to mark you - whether I will see if I can get all the stripes nicely lined up, or if I should be less clinical about it and strike as the mood takes me. The crossing lines will cause beautiful welts, you know. I wonder if you have any idea how much this is going to hurt? And not just today either, you are going to feel it for the rest of the week. Every time you catch one of the bruises I'm going to leave, you'll remember lying on my bed naked, cuffed and gagged, and why you needed this."

Sherlock moaned behind his gag, his attention fully focussed now on the images John was creating in his mind.

"I'm not going to expect you to count, or tell you how many strokes you will be getting," murmured John close to Sherlock's ear, "I'm just going to keep doing it until I think you've had enough." And then he got closer still and whispered darkly "Or perhaps I'll only stop when _I've_ had enough" and was rewarded with a small gasp from Sherlock as he jerked in anticipation.

John looked down at his friend and saw how his whole body was keyed up, ready and waiting. It was time. He stood up, stepped away from the bed slightly, and brought the belt back. Sherlock's eyes opened and stared at him. Maintaining eye contact, John carefully brought the belt down hard across the back of his legs, just below Sherlock's buttocks. John smiled coldly as he saw the look of shock in Sherlock's eyes, swiftly followed by a look almost of relief. It hurt, but it was bearable. Sherlock's eyes closed again as he waited for the next.

John struck again, this time slightly higher, and then again, and again. To Sherlock the blows seemed without restraint, but John was being careful to hold his strength in check, and to keep the marks to a relatively compact area. He didn't want the detective to be too sore the next day, and he knew the build up and the sheer newness of this would make every strike feel twice as intense.

Pausing for breath, he leant down and looked at Sherlock's face. "Open your eyes" he told him, and Sherlock did. John touched his wrist, checking his pulse, and looked searchingly at him. Not there yet, he hadn't quite tipped over into the bliss John knew pain could induce. He stood up, changed his angle, and methodically started again.

Sherlock was in a daze. He wanted to protest, that it hurt too much, that he couldn't think with all the pain, that he just needed a break for a second to collect his thoughts, but he couldn't. All he could do was gasp and moan behind his gag and clench and unclench his cuffed fists. He did't dare kick out or move his legs, fearful such an action would leave his inner thighs vulnerable to John's belt. He thought of all the things he would do to his flatmate in retaliation - severed heads in the fridge would be the least of John's worries, thought Sherlock darkly. But then the belt came across his arse once again, and he was engrossed in the feeling it caused. It was painful yes, but only momentarily before it turned into a white hot brand, seeming almost to sear into his soul. He gasped, and then moaned again, deeper, his mind absorbed by the feeling.

John watched the change, saw as Sherlock finally gave in to it, his eyes glassy as he stared into space, the moans almost constant, and no longer in protest, but in appreciation. He knew it was pretty much time to stop, so he counted 5 more strokes, then put the belt down and surveyed his work. Sherlock's arse and the backs of his thighs were almost universally bright red with raised white stripes where the edge of the belt had caught. He flinched slightly in sympathy with the realisation that there would be more than a couple of bruises. Sherlock was going to have a miserable few days of being very careful as he sat. To be honest, John was surprised it had taken as long as it had for Sherlock to give in. His pain threshold was higher than expected.

Sherlock slowly came back to the room, aware that the pain had stopped. He closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of heat across his body, and feeling the endorphins rushing around his bloodstream, making him almost giddy. He looked up at John, who smiled down at him. John sat on the edge of the bed again, undid and removed the gag, then gently stroked Sherlock's back, running his hand down from the smooth untouched skin to the redness and the welts, feeling the difference in heat and texture, admiring his handiwork. John continued to stroke, as Sherlock relaxed again and closed his eyes, his mind contrasting the pleasure of the gentle touch of John's hand with the feel of the belt striking his skin.

John carefully released the cuffs, rubbing his fingers lightly over Sherlock's wrists and the red marks there. Nothing that wouldn't fade by the morning. Sherlocks eyes remained closed and his breathing was steadily slowing. He placed the detective's arms back by his sides, and, taking a blanket from the bottom of the bed, covered him with it. Leaning over, he kissed him lightly on the forehead again, wanting to show his friend that he'd kept him safe, and that he cared.

As Sherlock drifted into sleep he was aware of the light dimming, and John quietly making his way downstairs to sleep on the couch. His last thoughts as he floated away were of gratitude for this amazing gift.


	5. Chapter 5

Epilogue

John woke in the morning to the sound of the violin being played. Not tortured, as it usually was when Sherlock was mid-case, but a beautiful lilting melody, speaking of pleasure and joy and warmth. He couldn't help but feel it was Sherlock's way of saying thank you for the previous night, and John smiled to himself as he lay back down on the couch to enjoy it. Until it stopped with a screech and the detective came racing out to the lounge shouting "John, John, I've got it - we have to go to Marble Arch _right now_ - the clue was in the way the cat food was arranged."

As he watched the detective dash back into his room, robe flying out behind him, John sighed with relief. Clearly things were back to normal.

oOo oOo oOo

John watched Sherlock all day, amused at the sight of his friend bounding along, getting caught up in his enthusiasm now the case was almost solved. Luckily for them both, there were no cabbage-strewn chases to dampen the mood. Even Sally Donovan came over at one point to enquire exactly what Sherlock was on, because he was acting 'even more freaky than usual' as she put it. John just shrugged and said he knew nothing.

It wasn't until after the suspects had been taken away, and statements had been written up, that the men were able to take a moment. As they got into the taxi to travel back to Baker Street, John noticed Sherlock wince slightly as he sat down. John's eyes danced as he imagined the bruises causing the discomfort. Sherlock looked at him and muttered "sadist".

John's amusement turned into full on laughter, and he turned to his friend. "Don't complain. You loved every second of it." And Sherlock, despite himself, couldn't help but smile in agreement. He leaned in closer to his friend and murmured quietly "If I ask _very _nicely, do you think we could try the riding crop next time" and watched with satisfaction as John's breath hitched and his blue eyes darkened at the thought.

* * *

**A/N - **thanks for reading! I've written a sequel, called 'a decision made' where some of the themes from this story are expanded on. This story was intended to be a stand-alone piece but I enjoyed writing about this version of John and Sherlock too much to let them go just yet...

As always, comments and reviews are gratefully received.


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